Over the Moon at the Big Lizard Diner

by Lisa Wingate

  He frowned thoughtfully, as if he were giving the question deep consideration, then answered with, “She’s great.”

  I shoulder-butted him harder, which rattled the tower. Gasping, I renewed my choke hold, reminding myself that twenty-some feet in the air was not the place to get playful.

  Grabbing the tower, Zach stiffened his arms, imitating my death grip.

  I sneered at him, only half-kidding. “You know, you make a joke out of practically everything. You’re hard to get to know. Did anybody ever tell you that?”

  “My mother,” he answered, and I couldn’t help it—I laughed.

  “You are impossible. Don’t you ever get serious about anything?”

  He shrugged in a way that said, What can I say—this is me . “Sometimes you can either laugh or cry, and it’s better to laugh. My mother used to also say that, by the way.”

  I blinked, surprised. “My mother used to say that, too. She used it a lot on me, because I was such a whiner.”

  “A whiner?” Drawing back, Zach eyeballed me. “You?”

  For an instant I thought he was kidding, and then I realized he really meant it. Zach could not imagine why anyone would classify me as a complainer.

  I felt lighter than air. Zach liked me just the way I was. A rush of warm, soft emotions wrapped around me, and I snuggled in. My eyes teared up. Ever since Geoff left, I’d felt worthless, unattractive, rejected. Even though I’d told myself over and over that Geoff was a self-centered jerk, that the divorce was his fault, that he’d put his career before Sydney and me, deep down I was convinced that I was really responsible. Geoff didn’t love me because I wasn’t worth loving.

  Now suddenly I felt special. I felt admired and accepted and affirmed. I felt a connection to Zach that I couldn’t describe. It was like magic. There was no scientific explanation for it. It was just there.

  “What?” Zach said softly, perplexed by my emotional reaction.

  I started to tell him what I was thinking, but some practical part of me warned that it would be completely inappropriate, considering that we barely knew each other. “That’s the nicest thing anybody’s said to me in years.” I sniffed.

  He chuckled low in his throat, a warm, resonant sound, and peered over the edge of the windmill tower. “You’ve been hanging around with the wrong people.”

  “I think I have,” I admitted, studying his profile, memorizing the contours of his face in the moonlight—the strong nose, the chin with a slight cleft, the downward sweep of dark lashes, the high cheekbones, the way his dark hair curled over the top of his ear, the way his lips were parted slightly, undecided between a smile and a pensive frown. I wanted to know what he was thinking. I wanted to know everything about him. I’d never felt that way about anybody before.

  “Zach, thanks for today,” I said quietly. “I know you probably had other plans.”

  He threaded his arms around me, and I leaned into him. “Not a one,” he whispered against my hair. “Nothing that mattered.”

  “Me, either.” The words couldn’t have been more true. Nothing else mattered right now but being with him.

  Zach and Lindsey, tilting at windmills. The only two people as far as the eye could see.

  FIFTEEN

  ASTORM CAME IN SOMETIME LATE AT NIGHT. ZACH HAD POINTED out the distant lightning as we stood together in front of my cabin. He’d escorted me home, which wasn’t strictly necessary, since I’d picked up my car at the horse barn. But, as thunder rumbled far off and a blanket of clouds narrowed the sky, I was glad he was there. Part of me wanted to invite him in, and part of me knew that probably wasn’t a good idea. Things were moving too fast already, and my head was in a spin. The ground under my feet felt soft and shifty, like puffy cotton, and I knew that if we went into the cabin, almost anything could happen, and probably would.

  He seemed to sense that, and stopped on the porch, leaning against one of the stone pillars with Mr. Grits at his side. “Looks like we’ll have a gully washer before morning,” he said, squinting into the distance. He’d left his cowboy hat in the truck, and a few strands of straight, dark hair fell over his forehead. He looked like Jeremiah Truitt, from the picture above the fireplace.

  “It’s a long way off. How can you tell it’s coming here?” I made idle conversation, trying to delay his leaving.

  “It’s coming from the southwest, probably somewhere around San Angelo or Menard right now.” Glancing at his watch, he ran some mental calculations, then added, “It’ll be here about one a.m. Two, maybe three inches of rain and some pretty strong winds on the leading edge.”

  Leaning off the porch, I surveyed the flickering thunderheads on the horizon. “You can tell all that just by looking?”

  “No, I heard it on the radio after I dropped you off at the horse barn.” Without waiting for a retort, he kissed me on the forehead, said, “Good night, Lindsey. Don’t get out on the roads first thing in the morning. It’ll be muddy,” and headed for his truck whistling an off-key rendition of “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.”

  “Good night, Zach,” I whispered, hugging my arms around myself and watching until he climbed into the truck and disappeared around the bend. With a sigh, I went inside, ate a late-night snack of Moon Pies and soda, fed Mr. Grits, took a bath, and headed for bed, hoping I could drift off to sleep before the storm rolled in.

  The wind singing against the window wells lulled me away as soon as my head hit the pillow. I didn’t have time to analyze the evening, or consider what it meant, or wonder why, even with Zach far off, I still felt him near me.

  I dreamed of the Lover’s Oak, lofty and proud, its branches stretching over a carpet of Indian blankets. Among the flowers sat row upon row of old-fashioned church pews, filled with townsfolk in historic dress—men in coats and tails and women in brightly colored dresses and bonnets. A wedding was in progress, but I couldn’t see the bride and groom from overhead. The wedding march began, and in the front row the Blum sisters, Mr. Grits, and a giant jackrabbit stood at attention… .

  When I woke in the morning that was the last thing I remembered. I lay drifting between the conscious and subconscious, trying to decide what the dream meant. Then I remembered everything that had happened the day before—Zach and me kissing under the Lover’s Oak, the two of us rescuing Sleepy, then sitting atop the windmill tower. Suddenly last night’s dream didn’t seem so strange. Compared to yesterday’s reality, giant jackrabbits weren’t much of a stretch.

  Staring hard at the ceiling, I tried to divine whether it had really happened, but even as my mind was sorting out dreams from reality, my body remembered. I touched my lips and felt him there, closed my eyes and basked in the warmth of his arms around me, shivered as an electric attraction crackled between my body and his.

  But the memory was short-lived. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, chasing away my sunshine and rainbows, causing me to open my eyes to the realities of the day. It was raining. I was a thousand miles from home. Sydney was far away in Mexico. And now I was carrying on an ill-advised romance with a man I barely knew.

  It was more than I could bear to ponder, lying in the gray morning light of a rainy day, so I got out of bed, dressed, flipped the light switch, and realized that on top of everything else, the power was out. Peeling an orange from the bowl on the counter, I wandered around the shadowy cabin, feeling lost and lonely. No doubt horse psychology class was rained out. I was surprisingly disappointed about that. I wanted to show off my new skills. As it was, I wouldn’t even be able to answer Sydney’s e-mail. Even if the rain tapered off, everything outside was wet and muddy, and climbing the hill to my communications post would be almost impossible.

  I checked my watch. Seven o’clock. Too early to drive to the ranch house and …

  See if Zach happens to be there …

  No. I reprimanded myself. I wasn’t going there to look for Zach; I was going to use Jocelyn’s computer to e-mail Sydney, make sure she was all right after Geoff’s crew part
y last night, and see if Geoff had answered my note about the fossils. Just business. If the day stayed wet and rainy, I might hang around Jocelyn’s office and post some discreet inquiries on palentology chat boards, maybe do some snooping through the online sites that advertised fossil auctions all over the world.

  … or see what Zach does on a rainy day, when it’s too wet to work.

  God, I was hopeless. Hopelessly preoccupied, smitten against my will. It was as if I’d consumed some mind-altering substance the moment Zach kissed me under the Lover’s Oak, and even now, in the fresh light of morning, I couldn’t shake its effects. The memories of last night were swirling around and around in my head, and if I didn’t do something, I was going to go crazy from reliving it, then analyzing whether it was a good idea. The more I obsessed, the more real the desires became. They were like a chocolate craving after an eight-year diet: physical, mental, emotional, and powerful in a way that was disconcerting.

  What I needed was a distraction, but there was nothing to do in the cabin except read old magazines by the window light and think about my life. I felt as if I were trapped in a cell filled with unfamiliar surroundings and foreign emotions—someone else’s life, not mine. A pang of homesickness went through me, and I thought of the comfortable safety of my apartment back in Denver. On a normal day Sydney would just be waking up about now. We’d eat breakfast at the bar in the kitchen, talk about what she wanted in her lunch for summer day camp, maybe walk out onto the balcony and say hi to Mrs. B., our next-door neighbor, who kept Sydney stocked with cupcakes and homemade chocolate-chip cookies.

  I missed our normal morning routine. I missed its continuity, its predictability. Reliving the images, I felt the rainy-day blues creeping up on me. I had to fend them off before I fell into what my mother called a blue funk. I’d been in one for the last three weeks, and I couldn’t let myself go back.

  Putting on one of the rain slickers from the hook by the door, I slipped the leash onto Mr. Grits and headed for the car. Where I was going, I didn’t know. Somewhere, anywhere but here for an hour or so, until it was late enough to go by the ranch house to use the computer.

  I ended up driving to the riverbank. The rain had slacked off, and it seemed as good a time as any to further investigate the fossil site. Fossils were often easier to spot when the rocks were wet and slick, the striations and textures clearly visible. Overhead, the sky was clearing slightly, allowing faint sunbeams to probe the dingy morning gray as I circled the field above the river. The water had risen and was running surprisingly fast, covering even the rock shelf and the trackway by several inches. Opening the car door, I stepped out to get a better look. My foot sloshed through the thick grass into an underlying puddle of water, and I had, quite literally, a sinking feeling. I stood staring down at my foot, becoming aware that if my shoe was in the mud, so was the SUV.

  “Oh, no,” I muttered, sensing that the day was about to go from bad to worse. Leaning out the door, I watched mud ooze up around the tires. What had yesterday been a grassy slope was now a quagmire, well hidden beneath a thick layer of grass that did nothing to support a two-thousand-pound vehicle.

  Climbing back in the door, I shifted the Jeep into gear, and slowly pushed on the gas. The car rocked forward, and my hopes leaped up. Thank God for four-wheel drive. When I made it back to the cabin, I was going to stay there until the weather cleared.

  Please, please, please, please, I prayed. Out, please …

  All four tires started to spin, and I punched the gas harder. Wet clumps of cream-colored mud showered the windows and pelted the roof. Mr. Grits hopped out of the passenger seat and onto the floorboard, looking up at the ceiling.

  The Jeep went nowhere. Letting off the gas, I let it rock back, then race forward, back, then forward, back, forward, and down, down, down. In less than sixty seconds I had it mired up to the axles, hopelessly stuck. Outside, it started to rain again. Things weren’t going to dry up anytime soon.

  Turning off the key, I let my head fall back against the seat and tried to decide what to do next. I could walk back to the cabin, but I would be marooned there until someone finally came to check on me. Who knew when that would be? The main house was probably two or three miles’ distance on the road, and the road was a muddy mess. Zach was right: The soil here, when wet, had the consistency of axle grease.

  Now I remembered the other thing he’d said to me just before he left last night: Don’t get out on the roads first thing in the morning. It’ll be muddy.

  Why hadn’t I listened? What was wrong with me lately? Why did I make one impulsive move after another? Now I was stuck in the mud, miles from everyone and everything. Meanwhile Sydney would be waiting for my e-mail. She’d think I’d forgotten. What if the party hadn’t gone well last night and she was lost and lonely and needed to talk? What if Geoff and Whitney were passed out somewhere, hungover, and Sydney was wandering around the house alone, or worse yet, with some of Geoff’s shady crew members … ?

  I stared through the window at the falling rain, and my eyes filled up with tears. I wanted my daughter back. I wanted my life back. My nice, comfortable life with the quiet apartment, the friendly neighbors, and no big questions. No custody issues, no romantic fascination with cowboys, no smelly stray dog, no Jeep stuck in the mud.

  That isn’t going to happen, Lindsey, I told myself. Stop wallowing in self-pity and do something. Gathering my resolve, I pulled up the hood on my slicker, grabbed the dog’s leash, and got out. My tennis shoes sank ankle-deep in mud as Mr. Grits splashed to the ground beside me, happily wagging his tail and sneezing as we slogged up the hill toward the road. A trickle of water ran into my hood and dripped down my spine, and I bent against the rain, focusing on the soggy ground, alternately sniffling and giving myself a pep talk. Bad side—I was wet, cold, stranded, and had no way to get in touch with Sydney; bright side—the day had to get better from here. There was nowhere to go but up.

  Mr. Grits barked and pulled on the rope, and I looked up. Water rushed down my neck in torrents as I squinted through the rain, sighting the first good omen of the day. Two pickup trucks were headed in my direction, and the one in the lead had Zach at the wheel.

  He pulled up and stopped, gaping like he’d just seen the Loch Ness Monster crawl out of the river. “Lindsey?” he said, leaning across the seat and peering through the passenger-side window. “What are you doing out here?” Observing my Jeep, and then me again, he added, “Did you get stuck?”

  I was going to answer with something witty like, Oh, I was just out for a swim, but to my complete horror, I sniffled, said, “Yes,” and started to cry.

  Zach immediately threw the truck into park, slid across the seat, and opened the passenger-side door. “Here,” he said, patting the seat. “Hop in.” I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or the dog. Mr. Grits climbed onto the floorboard, and I climbed into the seat. It was a tight fit, but it didn’t matter, because both of us were equally glad to be out of the rain. Zach looked like he’d been in the weather as well. He had on a wet gray cowboy hat, a tan canvas slicker, and mud-spattered jeans tucked into the tops of boots that were caked with mud and grass. He seemed completely comfortable that way.

  The other truck pulled alongside us, and he lowered the window enough to talk. Dan eyed me suspiciously from the passenger side, and from the driver’s seat, Jimmy checked out my Jeep with admiration. “Man, that thing’s stuck up to the hubs. Bet that took some doing.”

  Zach had the good grace to answer before I broke down again. “We’ll bring the tractor down here and get it out after the rain stops,” he said, and I felt better already. “Y’all go on down and get started fixing the water gap. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Jimmy said, “Yes, sir,” and Dan grumbled something, still scowling at my Jeep, or me, or both. The two of them drove off in a spray of mud.

  Rolling up the window, Zach took off his cowboy hat and set it on the dash. He studied me, clearly at a loss. “Lindsey, what happened
? What are you doing down at the river?”

  Pushing my hood back, I wiped my eyes, feeling foolish and pathetic. I considered explaining about the fossils, and Collie’s newspaper article, and why I really came to the Jubilee Ranch, but I was teetering too close to the end of my rope to go through all that. “It’s a long story.” My voice was choked and small, tears still obvious in it. “Is there any way you could give me a ride to the ranch house? Jocelyn said I could use her computer there. I always check on my daughter by e-mail in the morning.”

  He scrubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. For a moment I thought he’d say no, and I was going to be disappointed in more ways than one. “The power’s out at the house, and as usual the phones are messed up.”

  “Oh … ” I muttered, looking down at my hands, knowing that I was making a bigger deal of this than it was. Zach probably thought I was an emotional basket case. “Well, that’s OK. It can wait until later.”

  Tapping his thumb against the steering wheel, he studied me for a long moment. “Lindsey, what’s going on?” he said with the same bedside manner he used when he talked to Mr. Grits. It seemed as if next he would check my ears and teeth to see what was ailing me.

  Pulling in a breath and letting it out, I pushed strings of wet hair away from my face, wiped my eyes again, and pressed my fingers against my temples. “Just ignore me. I’m having an off-kilter day. It’s raining, and I miss my little girl, and I was stuck in the cabin with the power out, and I got a little crazy.” Zach didn’t answer, and I didn’t glance over to check his reaction. If he had any doubts about my being a therapy patient, he was probably fully convinced now. The rest of the Sydney story oozed out of me like thick, black ink. “She’s never been gone for the summer before. She’s never spent any time away. All of a sudden her father has remarried, and out of the blue he wants to exercise the joint custody, and now she’s gone to Mexico until school starts. Her dad was having some big party last night with his crew, and I have this horrible image of Sydney running around some grown-up fiesta with everyone drunk, or stoned, or God knows what else. Geoff’s crew members aren’t the most savory people, and he doesn’t get the fact that, even though Sydney talks like an adult sometimes, she’s just an eight-year-old girl.” There, I’d done it. I’d dumped my whole pathetic story, identified myself as a divorced-mom-with-major-baggage. Now it was time for him to politely backpedal, then run the other direction.